Supernova
by rhyme time
Summary: Set after 8x15. It was true that she had tucked her heart away after her parents abandoned her; however, no single event defined an entire life. The loss of her parents and brother set in motion a series of events that shaped and molded and made her into Temperance Brennan. She could not be unmade by the loving directive of her dead mother. This is a work in progress.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: I love Booth and Brennan. I've been rooting for them for eight years. I love Booth and Brennan's lovestory. I'm less than thrilled with how aspects of their relationship have been written. This is my angsty attempt to rework some issues I see in their relationship. Notice I said angsty. **

xXx

_Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Majestic diamonds are dead plants and animals crushed under the earth's weight. Supernovas, the single most brilliant pieces of light and energy in the universe, are born of dying stars._

_Personalities are not accidents. You have no idea what I went through to become this person._

_-Oscar Wilde_

It had been a long time since she'd sat at the bar of the Founding Fathers nursing a drink. She and Booth usually shared a glass or two of wine at home with dinner. Whiskey seemed a bitter choice. It stung her throat and reminded her of nights when she and Booth pretended to be anything but in love.

Her abdomen ached in a way that defied logic. It had been two months since the shooting, and she'd been back at work for three weeks. Long days bent over steel tables examining remains made her sore and tired in a way that was unfathomable before the shooting. She was healed. She had been cleared for lab and field work. For the first week, she sneaked pain pills. The medicine didn't lessen the pain only made her more tired. She tried stretching and wet heat and dry heat and even visited a massage therapist. She made an appointment with her doctor who ran a battery of tests that turned up nothing. The ache persisted and she gritted her teeth and said nothing to anyone. She worked harder to forget everything about that night and the days that followed.

Booth didn't hover as much as she thought he would.

Images of her mother played out in her mind. The visions of her mother had provided both closure and new wounds. It was true that she had tucked her heart away after her parents abandoned her; however, no single event defined an entire life. The loss of her parents and brother set in motion a series of events that shaped and molded and made her into Temperance Brennan.

She could not be unmade by the loving directive of her dead mother.

She signaled the bartender. "Another," she requested, tapping the rim of her glass. Her phone rang and the screen vibrated to life. Booth's name shone in the darkness. She tapped the ignore button and returned to her solitude.

She loved Booth and Christine and their life. She loved their house and the toys that amassed as their daughter grew older. She loved Booth's companionship and his goodness and his affinity for hockey and Canadian beer. She loved him like she'd never loved another person.

Lately, though, love wasn't the first word that came to mind when she thought about his feelings for her. Everything she said and did seemed to irritate him. He said things to her that felt like insults but that he covered with a smile. All her quirks seemed to set him on edge. When she was talking he cut her off and he seemed far away even when he was standing in front of her.

When she told him she felt like something was wrong between them, he waved his hand dismissively. "We're fine, Bones," he'd said. He'd kissed her and had taken her to bed and it was easy to forget that she felt something less than happy when his tongue trailed over the rise of her hip.

He was a good companion, partner, friend, and father. He was an excellent FBI agent. Everything about him was sure and steady and stable. Together, their solve rate was still the highest in the bureau. He excelled, and they excelled, but she felt thin and worn and tired.

Pelant was still on the loose and taunting her about motherhood and relationships weakening her intellect. She didn't command the same deference she once had in the lab. She felt like a name on a resume rather than a valued and respected colleague. Where her unique perspectives on life had once been endearing, perhaps humorous, she was now merely tolerated. She saw it when her friends rolled their eyes or tightened their jaws when they knew she was going to say something inappropriate.

Her years with Booth had taught her to better read people. The shooting had awakened an even greater sensitivity to the way people perceived her. When she felt the rational side of her brain whir to life and begin to wax logical or scientific, she learned to bite her tongue, and she was rewarded when the tension in the room eased. Her silence caused the eyes of her friends and colleagues to widen in surprise and the tense lines of their jaws slackened. They looked at her like maybe she would fit in with them one day.

Earlier, Angela visited her office and sat on her desk, smiled, and said, "You've come a long way, baby."

"What does that mean?" Brennan asked, glancing up from her computer screen.

"It means that I can't believe how much you've evolved. The other day you were singing along to The Black Keys, and you didn't say anything about catching Cam and Arastoo in her office last week."

Brennan arched an eyebrow. "Little Black Submarines is a hauntingly beautiful song. And why should I mention what I saw in Cam's office? It's none of my business," she said.

"Oh, sweetie," Angela laughed.

Brennan laughed humorlessly in response. "This means I've evolved?"

Angela smiled, nodded, and left without another word.

Brennan wanted to tell her that a change in musical proclivity and a newfound propensity for silence were not evolutionary markers. Instead, she stayed silent, because it seemed that people liked her better that way.

At the bar, people talked about their day and made plans, and she sat in a room full of people alone. It felt like old times except that she knew Booth and Christine were at home wondering where she was and why she wasn't eating dinner with them.

She signaled the bartender and held up her credit card. Brennan glanced around the bar and wondered about the lives of the people around her. She wondered about the life of the bartender, a man about her age, and all the choices that had led to him serving her drinks tonight.

The bartender came back and handed her the receipt and her card. She tipped him well and signed on the line. She stood up and swayed so much that she felt like she might fall. Reaching out to steady herself, her hands found the edge of the bar. It was slick and smooth and cool under her fingertips.

The bartender turned and asked, "Are you okay?"

Tears welled in her eyes because she realized it had been so long since someone had asked her that and meant it.

She nodded, feeling ridiculous and awkward, and the bartender ducked under the bar and stood beside her. "You didn't have that much to drink. You look sick. Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He rubbed her shoulder and she grabbed her coat, tucked her wallet in the deep, velvet pocket, and looped a finger through her key ring.

She smiled and brushed the tears out of her eyes. "Rough day," she said, because this was what normal people said. This was a colloquially acceptable response.

"Should I call a cab?" he asked.

In truth, she was tired and the alcohol hadn't helped her mood, so she nodded and said thank you.

A few minutes later a cab arrived to take her home.

She'd come to associate cabs with saying goodbye to Booth, so it felt strange to be in a cab and on her way home to him. She closed her eyes and let the motion of the vehicle soothe her.

"We're here…" she heard the cab driver say.

Brennan reached for her wallet and saw that her credit card was not inside. She must have left it at the bar. She didn't have any cash, either.

"Damn it," she said. "I have to go inside for money. I'm sorry," she said automatically.

The cab driver seemed unbothered by the delay and put the car in park. She quickly opened the door, fumbled with her keys, and hurriedly unlocked the front door of her home.

"Bones? Where have you been?" Booth asked from somewhere upstairs.

"Hang on," she replied. "I need money for the cab." She went to the kitchen and found a jar where Booth insisted they keep a small amount of cash.

"Cab?" Booth questioned as he made his way downstairs.

She hurried past him out the front door. "Yes," she said, her answer trailing behind her.

Even before she was to the cab driver's window, she was apologizing for the inconvenience, apologizing for making him wait, apologizing for being a pain in the ass.

"Lady, it's no big deal. You can stop apologizing," he said. She gave him twenty dollars for the cab fare and a twenty dollar tip because it was the first time in a long time she didn't feel like a burden.

The cab drove away and she looked toward her home and saw Booth standing in the doorway.

She walked toward him, and he stepped aside as she entered.

"Are you all right?" he asked, but there was an edge to his tone.

She nodded. "I'm fine," she said.

He closed the door behind them and followed her into the kitchen where she eased out of her coat and draped it over the back of the chair.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he asked, "Why did you take a cab? Where's your car?"

"The Founding Fathers," she replied.

"The Founding Fathers," he repeated. "Why were you there?"

She turned to face him. "I just needed some time to myself. I had…" She trailed off. She was going to say she had a rough day, but that wasn't entirely true. Her day had been unremarkable. "I just needed some time."

"Okay," he said, approaching her. "But you're home now and you're all right." He embraced her, kissed her on the forehead.

"I'm home now, yes," she said. She wanted him to hear all that she wasn't saying.

"Good," he said, holding her tightly against him. "That's all that matters."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: For those of you who are wondering/asking, this is a work in progress. Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm always happy to receive feedback.**

He wore a pair of Vans, and he had brown hair.

"Male. I estimate his age between 13 and 15 years old. Height…68 inches. Remodeling suggests moderate physical abuse from infancy until death," Brennan stated, crouched over the remains and trying to ignore the constant ache that plagued her. "Clean break through the left ulna. No remodeling suggests that this break occurred around time of death."

Hodgins quietly collected soil samples and insect evidence.

"Decomposition suggests the body has been here for about a week," Cam offered.

Booth recorded their findings in his notebook.

"Cause of death?" Booth asked hopefully.

Sunlight shone through the trees that surrounded them. It was a cold day but a sweat broke out on Brennan's forehead. She cradled the skull in her hands. "There is blunt force trauma to the back of the skull," she commented. "I'll know for certain when I examine his remains back at the lab."

Nodding, Booth noted a probable cause of death.

"Anything else, Bones?" he asked.

Brennan moved her hands along the right humerus to the radius and finally the phalanges. "He would have been tall. His growth plates have not fused. Maybe he would have played basketball or some other sport. He might have enjoyed the popularity athletic accomplishment brings with it. He was beautiful…" she said absently.

Booth, Cam, and Hodgins stopped working. They stared at Brennan who was lost in thought over a dead boy's bones. Brennan was facts and logic. She was not what ifs and might have beens.

Brennan looked at Booth and shook her head. "You shouldn't write that down."

Booth nodded, his concern for her evident in the furrow of his brows, the tense line of his jaw. He looked at her for a moment longer and then turned to face the techs. "You know the drill. Let's get all of this back to the Jeffersonian," he commanded, his arm moving in a circular motion over the scene.

Brennan stood up and steeled her expression into one of forced indifference. No emotions. No thoughts beyond identifying the remains and finding cause of death. She felt Booth's hand on the small of her back as she approached his vehicle and climbed inside. Immediately, she leaned her head against the head rest and closed her eyes.

Booth closed her door. Without opening her eyes, she reached for her seatbelt and pulled it across her body. Booth got in the driver's side, slid the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. The ride was rough as the truck made its way from the uneven space near the crime scene onto the paved road.

Booth didn't ask about her unusual commentary at the crime scene. She didn't offer any explanation. She thought about the boy and his life and all the moments that led to them crossing paths in this way. If she was murdered, she knew some of her history would show in her bones. She had suffered abuse in foster care and had been attacked while on a dig overseas. Those events had left marks that silence couldn't erase.

The scar from her shooting and subsequent surgery continued to fade into a thin pink line, slightly off center, bisecting her abdomen. She wondered about the pain she continued to feel. It was, like the visions of her mother, inexplicable.

Booth dropped her off at the lab with a smile and a quick kiss goodbye.

She visited Christine during her lunch hour. It was chilly outside, but she bundled Christine in a coat, hat, and mittens, and they went for a walk around the Jeffersonian. The crisp air was invigorating. Christine babbled and pointed at birds and clouds and wonders only a child could see. Although Brennan felt the normal pressure that women exerted on themselves to be good mothers, Christine held no expectations or judgment. Rationally, Brennan knew that would come later as her daughter's brain developed, but for now Christine was happy being in Brennan's arms and being fed Cheerios and feeling the warmth of her mother's breath against her cheek. For now, Brennan's relationship with her daughter was simple, and Brennan had never been more thankful for the easy companionship of her child. Brennan pressed a kiss to Christine's forehead as she returned her daughter to daycare.

Back in her office, she texted Booth and asked him to pick up Christine by six that evening. She mentioned that she needed to pick up her car and credit card at the Founding Fathers. They exchanged a series of text messages about whether or not she needed a ride and if she would be home for dinner.

She said she might be late. He didn't respond.

In the bone room, she pushed her ear buds into her ears and turned on her iPod. Her musical preferences had evolved. Lately, she'd been melancholy and her musical choices reflected her mood.

On the table, the life of the unknown boy was assembled in the form of his skeleton. She knew people by their bones in ways they'd never been known in life. They gave up their secrets to her.

Extensive remodeling and bone thickening was a testament to the abuse he'd suffered for years. The angle of his broken ulna could have been a defensive wound. She pulled on her magnification headgear to get a better look at his ulna and a wave of nausea washed over her.

Dr. Batuhan was currently being held without bail and was awaiting trial for her shooting and Hal's murder. Cam had taken it upon herself to conduct an internal review of the lab's security personnel. She was safe. It was ridiculous to think otherwise. Nevertheless, she pulled off the magnification headgear and took a deep breath.

Angela strode into the bone room. "We've got an ID on the boy," she said.

Brennan followed Angela to her office where Cam, and surprisingly, Booth, were assembled.

With a few clicks, pictures of a smiling, freckle-faced boy appeared on the screen. His eyes were bright blue, his hair brown. He had a crooked smile and deep dimples in both cheeks.

"Meet Jack Johnson," Angela said. "He was known as JJ to his friends. Fourteen years old, reported missing by his foster mother last Tuesday. He lived a terrible life and he died a terrible death. I hate my job," she finished.

"Police report has the foster mother on record saying the last time she saw JJ was as he was walking to the bus stop on Monday morning a week ago. She reported him missing on Tuesday afternoon. She said he'd run away before, and the police instructed her to wait 24 hours to file an official report," Booth interjected.

"Preliminary tox screen is negative," Cam added.

Everyone turned to Brennan. "I don't have much more than I did at the crime scene," she said.

"We need to talk to the foster parents, Bones," Booth said.

They excused themselves from Angela's office and made their way toward Brennan's.

"I thought you might take Sweets today," she said, taking off her lab coat.

Booth looked at her. "You're my partner," he replied.

She traded her lab coat for a blazer and they made their way to Booth's vehicle. She punched the address for Jack's foster parents' home in the GPS, and it mechanically guided their journey.

They arrived at a small house with a well-kept yard. A sign on the door said "Welcome." Booth knocked and rang the doorbell.

A teenage girl answered the door, only opening it halfway. Booth flashed his badge. "I'm Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI. This is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan. Are your parents home?"

The thin, dark haired girl turned and disappeared into the house. A minute later, an attractive woman in her late-30s or early 40s appeared at the door. "May I help you?" she asked.

Booth nodded. "Are you Nicole Thornton?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"We need to speak with you about Jack Johnson," he said.

The woman's eyes widened. "Is he in trouble? Is he all right?"

Booth put away his badge. "He's not in trouble."

Nicole opened the door wider and leaned against the jamb. "What is this about?"

The mood had shifted. Brennan hated this part of the case. When someone knew their loved one was dead but Booth was forced to say it anyway.

"Jack's remains were found early this morning," Booth stated evenly.

Nicole's eyes closed and tears streamed down her cheeks. "I can't believe this. Are you sure it's Jack?"

"Yes," Brennan answered. "He was positively identified through dental records."

"Come in," Nicole said, stepping aside so Booth and Brennan could enter. "Come in, please."

Behind Nicole, the young girl who'd answered the door, was crying.

"What's your name?" Booth asked the girl.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Claire," she answered.

Nicole interjected, "This is my biological daughter. We took Jack in about six months ago. He and Claire were close."

Booth nodded and proceeded down the hall. Nicole gave Booth and Brennan a more detailed version of what was in the police report. Booth inquired about Nicole's husband, Brad Thornton. Nicole informed him that Brad had left on business a few days ago and would be back the next evening. After giving Nicole his card, Booth and Brennan left and made their way back to the Jeffersonian.

"Don't forget to pick up Christine after work," Brennan said, exiting Booth's truck.

He looked at her somewhat uncertainly, enough that she paused before closing the door. In the end, he smiled and said, "See you tonight, Bones."

xXx

She approached the bar somewhat warily and caught the eye of the bartender. "I called earlier today and spoke to the manager. I left my credit card here last night," she said.

"Yes," the bartender replied. "Temperance Brennan. Your card is locked in the safe in the office. Give me a minute?" he asked.

Brennan nodded and took a seat at the bar. The bartender slid a shotglass of whiskey in front of her.

"On the house," he said.

She smiled. "Thank you."

She watched as he scurried around filling up drinks and cashing out customers. By his gait and the way he shifted his hips, she could tell he had lower back pain. He ducked under the counter and disappeared in a room toward the back of the bar. He returned carrying her card in his hand. He smiled and slid it across the bar to her. "There you go," he said. "Are you having a better night tonight?"

She wasn't sure how to answer. Her night hadn't been bad. She'd had a rough couple of months.

"I guess so," she said.

He shook his head. "I'm well-versed in people speak. That means no," he said.

"It's been a rough few months," she admitted.

He arched an eyebrow. "How so?" he asked.

Brennan laughed self-consciously. "I don't even like sharing personal information with my friends. I don't even know your name."

He held out his hand and waited for her to shake it. His hand was warm in hers, his handshake firm. "My name is Daniel," he said. "Sometimes it's easier to tell your problems to strangers than friends. There's less judgment and more objectivity."

"I wouldn't even know where to start," she said, tracing the rim of the glass with her index finger.

"Start at the beginning, Temperance," he suggested.

"Let's start with my name. I prefer Brennan," she corrected.

"Brennan it is," he said.

A patron commanded his attention and he held up a finger suggesting that he'd be right back. The door to the bar opened and an influx of men and women entered. She watched as they approached the bar, not really looking at Daniel, instead eyeing the bottles behind him. He was something of a gatekeeper. They ordered beer and an array of mixed drinks. He worked efficiently but with the flair of a seasoned bartender. He flipped a bottle in the air, caught it, and set it back in place on the shelf. Most of the patrons turned their backs on him to visit with accompanying companions. A few solitary patrons were kept busy by the phones they held in their hands.

Daniel dragged a white cloth down the surface of the bar top and made his way back to her.

"I'm a forensic anthropologist. I work at the Jeffersonian," she began. "Two months ago, I was shot in the lab where I work. I almost died," she said, pausing, "I almost _died_," she repeated as if it was the first time she'd really considered the reality of what had happened to her. "I'm in pain every day. I've seen my doctor and there is nothing physically wrong with me. But every day I wake up, and I'm in pain. I'm surrounded by people who care about me, but you're the first person I've told."

She looked up at him.

"You don't pull punches," he said seriously.

She shook her head. "I don't know what that means."

"You're honest," he clarified.

"Yes, I've been told that before. However, I've come to realize that most people don't want the truth. They want to feel better. It doesn't really matter what you tell them to bring about the temporary euphoria only ignorance provides. Most of the time when people ask you how you're doing, they want you to say that you're fine. Asking someone how they're doing has become polite social discourse. There's no desire for an honest answer. People make themselves feel better for asking even though they don't really want to _know_. Maybe it would have been better if I'd told you I was fine. You're very busy."

"I like you," he laughed.

Brennan sat up straighter on the bar stool. "I'm with someone," she said. "We live together. We have a daughter together."

Daniel held up his hands. "I meant in general. I like you as a person."

"I'm sorry. I just…I'm very literal. I don't do well with people," she apologized.

Daniel slid another drink in front of her. "Brennan, you do just fine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: I changed the rating for this story. I felt the story (this chapter and future chapters as well) required a rawness that could not be achieved within the guidelines of the lower rating. Thank you for reading and reviewing. To leshagen and sunsetdreamer – thank you for your heartfelt reviews and for making me feel less alone with my love (and concerns) for this beautiful, complicated, complex relationship.**

They were in bed and there was no use denying the tension between them.

He sighed. A lot. She read an article in _American Anthropologist_.

"You missed dinner," he said. "Again."

"Yes," she said.

"Is this going to be a thing?" he asked.

She turned and looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Are you not coming home for dinner now?" he asked.

"It was two times, Booth," she hedged.

He sighed again. "I miss you."

It was the honesty in his tone that broke through her prickly mood. His hand bridged the gap between them, gliding over soft sheets, until it came to rest on her stomach. Her shirt was thin and she knew he could feel the slight ridge of her scar through the gauzy material.

"I miss you, too," she said. It felt like the most honest conversation they'd had in two months.

His hand drifted from her stomach to her full breasts. He palmed a breast and rolled over to kiss her. She set the journal on her nightstand and let her hands drift along the solid planes of his bare back.

Lately, sex between them had been deliberate and steady, so very much like Booth, and she appreciated the time he took with her. He was thoughtful and attentive. In these brief, quiet moments, he knew exactly what she needed. Gently, he removed her top and helped her remove her pants. His hands traveled the long lines of her body. She quickly divested him of his shorts.

There was something comforting about being skin to skin with him. He rolled them so they were lying on their sides facing each other. He kissed her nose. "I love you, Bones. You know that, right?"

She closed her eyes. Hesitancy was not what he expected.

"Bones?" His tone was disbelieving. "You know I love you, right?"

Opening her eyes, she smiled at him. "Of course," she said.

"Good," he said, his tongue stealing into her mouth as his hand slid between her legs.

He was tender and possessive and she loved the combination of the slow stroke of his hand and the frantic push inside her. So much of their relationship existed on a spectrum of opposites. She grounded herself with a hand placed firmly on the back of his neck. She loved the play of muscles under skin and the strain of his body toward hers.

The near constant pain she felt was overshadowed by the pleasure of being with him. She forced herself to focus on the pressure and movement of his fingers and the warmth of his body as he moved inside her at a steady pace. His hot breath warmed the shell of her ear and she wanted more - of him and this moment when it was easy to forget that life sometimes got in the way of love.

"Baby, I'm close," he whispered, his pace quickening.

His fingers moved expertly over her clit and it felt good and she was so close but not quite there. She tried to recall every erotic moment between them, every memory and fantasy of him in her arsenal, but she couldn't catch up.

He was over the edge and she had to let him go without her. For a few seconds that stretched time until it was uncomfortable, he stayed in his position above her.

"Fuck," he said, finally, biting his lip and moving off her. "What happened? I thought…I thought you were right there with me."

"I do not have to achieve orgasm for us to have a pleasurable sexual experience," she reasoned.

Booth rolled his eyes. "That is the most unromantic thing you've ever said to me, Bones."

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he faced away from her. She loved the composition of his back, but she yearned to see his face. She wanted him to understand that it was okay.

"It's true. The sexual experience is not defined by –"

He cut her off, "Please don't speak squint in bed, Bones. I can't handle a lecture about a tribe in Zambania that only allows one orgasm a year but whose members still manage to lead fulfilling sex lives."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, half expecting her to continue or to tell him that Zambania wasn't a real place, but she had already picked up the journal off her nightstand and was reading the article that had captured her interest earlier.

xXx

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Christine fed herself Cheerios and applesauce. Booth and Brennan sat side by side at the breakfast bar not talking.

Brennan rolled the bottles of anti-virals in her hand. Tests done on Dr. Batuhan's blood were negative for HIV, AIDS, and Hepatitis B and C, but he had been out of the country several times in the months before the shooting and there were rumors around the lab about his sexual escapades abroad.

All her preliminary blood tests had come back negative. Her doctor had prescribed anti-virals as an extreme precautionary measure to prevent any further complications as a result of being exposed to Batuhan's blood. She was required to have blood tests for six months after the shooting. If her blood tests came back negative at the six month mark, she could come off the medications and go on with her life.

She downed the pills with a sip of coffee and put the bottles in her bag.

After setting her dishes in the sink, she wet a paper towel and approached her daughter who was wearing more applesauce than she had eaten, and she gently wiped Christine's face. Tiny arms reached out for her, and Brennan obliged by extricating her daughter from her high chair.

"We should get going," Booth said solemnly.

"Yes," she agreed, reaching for her messenger bag and Christine's diaper bag.

"I'll get the bags," he offered.

She forced a smile. "Thank you."

xXx

After hours spent examining the bones of Jack Johnson, Brennan determined that he was killed by blunt force trauma to the back of the head. She posited that the killer had used an aluminum baseball bat. Paint and a sliver of aluminum from the murder weapon were embedded in the skull. The bat was also responsible for Jack's broken ulna.

Angela was currently trying to match paint samples to determine the exact bat used to kill the young boy.

In her office, Brennan stared at Jack's picture on her computer screen. Death was as commonplace for her as life was for everyone else, but some cases, some victims, some deaths hurt more than others.

Jack Johnson had lived with his abusive, drug addicted mother for most of his life. Boyfriends had come and gone, most of them also abusive, all leaving their mark on Jack. After his mother had almost overdosed 11 months ago, Jack was placed in the first of three foster homes. Eventually, he went to live with the Thorntons and attended school with Claire, whom he affectionately called his sister. Brennan stared at the smiling face of a young boy who had no reason to smile. The optimism leaching through the screen was contagious. Looking at his bright eyes and open expression, it was easy to believe that everything would be all right for this boy, so much so, that Brennan had to remind herself that she'd spent the better part of two days examining his bones.

Their stories were not similar; however, in foster care, she'd learned that the details didn't matter. Some children were in foster care because of abuse, death, or parental drug use, but the common thread was that they were all abandoned. There were levels of abandonment – some parents, like hers, chose to leave, sometimes abandonment resulted from children being lower on the priority list than drugs or prostitution or an abusive boyfriend or girlfriend, but the end result was always abandonment. Something or someone else was more important.

She knew that if Jack Johnson was sitting in her office, facing her, she could mention that she, too, had been in foster care and they would share a knowing look about what that meant. Foster kids were like a tribe with a secret language and a secret knowledge about what went on in the system.

Sometimes it was difficult for outsiders to understand.

Her phone rang, startling her out of her reverie, and she glanced at the screen. It was Booth. She picked up the phone and dragged her finger across the screen, held it to her ear, "Hey, Booth."

"Hey, listen, I just wanted to let you know that the foster dad, Brad Thornton, caught an early flight home when he learned about Jack's death. Sweets and I are on our way to talk to him now. Do you have anything else on the murder weapon?" he asked.

"The murderer struck him twice – once breaking his ulna, probably subduing him, but the fatal blow was one blow to the back of the head. Angela is trying to match paint samples to determine the exact bat used. We think the paint came from a logo," she replied.

"Okay," he said. "Call me if you find out anything."

"I will," she replied.

He cleared his throat. "I'm not going to be back in time for lunch, Bones."

"All right," she said. "I'll see you after work."

"See you then," he said.

They disconnected and she returned to examining the picture of Jack on her computer screen.

"You're being weird," Angela proclaimed, strolling into Brennan's office.

Brennan quickly minimized the picture on her screen.

"Weird?" Brennan inquired. "How so?"

"Hodgins says you were unlike yourself when examining the remains at the crime scene a few days ago. You've been unusually quiet about this case. I saw you staring at JJ's picture," Angela explained.

"And that's weird?" Brennan pressed for clarification.

Angela laughed, "Don't get hung up on the word, sweetie. You aren't acting like yourself."

Brennan swiveled toward Angela in her chair. "How should I act when I'm examining the remains of a 14-year-old boy?"

"Well someone is argumentative today…" Angela sighed with a raise of her eyebrows.

"I'm not argumentative," Brennan protested. "You can be upset about an artist and kiss him – we all knew, by the way – and it's okay and no one says anything to you about it. We let you have your moment. But I make a statement at a crime scene and it's a reason to call me weird and lecture me."

Holding up a hand, Angela objected, "I'm not lecturing you, Brennan. I'm worried."

Brennan held Angela's gaze. "It feels more like disapproval. You said I was weird."

"I said you were acting weird," Angela argued.

"Semantics," Brennan countered.

"Okay," Angela said, drawing out the word. "I'm sorry I asked. Just know that I'm here if you need anything. Okay, sweetie?"

Brennan nodded obediently and watched Angela walk away. She wanted to tell Angela that she hadn't asked anything. She'd made a statement, an accusation, but it hardly seemed worth the trouble to point that out to her friend.

Checking her watch, Brennan decided that half past eleven was close enough to a lunch break, and she slid into her coat and headed for the daycare to visit Christine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the reviews and kind messages. This story is completely outlined, although I have no regular update schedule planned. I sneak away from real life and write when I can. I appreciate feedback!**

"I saw my mother," Brennan said.

His eyes conveyed his heartfelt concern. "When you flatlined?"

"Not just when I flatlined," she confessed. The truth was difficult and steeped in uncertainty. "The visions occurred when I was unconscious and anesthetized. I've been unconscious other times and I've been under anesthesia, but I've never seen my mother before," she reasoned.

"You were very close to death," he mentioned somewhat reluctantly.

"Yes," she agreed. She didn't like to think about that aspect of the shooting – how close she'd come to leaving Booth and Christine and the life they'd made together. She redirected the conversation, "My interaction with her was somewhat self-serving."

"How so?" he asked.

"What she said absolves me of a lot of responsibility for certain choices in my life. Her…" Brennan paused thinking of how she wanted to phrase it, then continued, "explanation is too easy. It doesn't take into account other mitigating factors."

"Factors?" he inquired.

"Reasons why I am the way I am…" she explained vaguely.

"And what way are you exactly?" he asked.

"Abrasive. Not good with people. Hyper-rational –" she began, ticking off the list she'd made over the years.

Daniel interrupted, "Who is telling you this shit?"

"Shit?" she asked, surprised by his response.

"Yes, Brennan. Shit. You are rational. I think that comes with being a scientist. But you're not abrasive or bad with people," he asserted. He turned away momentarily and handed another customer her bill. Brennan was seated near the end of the bar, in close proximity to the card reader, so they talked as he cashed out the young woman.

"I've improved," she laughed off the compliment. "I'm a different person now than I was nine years ago." Her transformation had always been marked by Booth's entry into her life.

"Then why are you still punishing yourself? Why do you let your past define you? You're one of the most intriguing people I've ever met," he said, refilling her glass.

She had opted for a glass of red wine as opposed to whiskey. Daniel had recommended a merlot he asserted was suitably complex for a complex woman. She realized now that he meant it as a compliment.

She smiled. "That is very kind."

"It's true," he replied. "What did your mother say, Brennan?"

She hadn't mentioned the visions to anyone except Booth and her father. Other than vague references to seeing her mother, she had not discussed the specifics with either of them. Booth hadn't asked. Time passed and it seemed awkward to bring it up to him. It wasn't that he avoided discussing what had happened to her; they simply didn't talk about it. She healed, took her anti-virals, hoped all her blood tests came back clean, and he seemed content to go on with their life together. For him, it was as if it had never happened.

She went along with his silence because it was a presence in their life she couldn't overcome. She had improved, but she was still not adept at navigating what she perceived as emotional landmines in their relationship.

Brennan turned to Daniel. Talking to him calmed her and made it easier to be strong and silent for Booth. It was ironic that Booth made her feel so much but he didn't seem to want to talk about what she was feeling now. She couldn't reconcile the contradiction. A drink in her hand made her brave, and so she inhaled and attempted to give Daniel some context.

"Before my mother died, my parents…when I was 15…they were no longer in my life," she tried to explain. "Their absence was very sudden. In the visions I had of my mother, she said that I tucked my heart away and used my brain to avoid being hurt. That is true. I was placed in foster care after they left," she said, giving him a significant look. "It's not as simple as deciding that I wouldn't get close to people," she paused, finding it difficult it difficult to articulate what she meant. "My personality didn't develop in their absence. Or not only because of their absence. It was, perhaps, refined by their absence. Foster care, experiences I had overseas as a female anthropologist - it's everything. Everything good and bad has made me who I am. It's not as simple as psychoanalyzing a coping mechanism instituted when I was 15 years old," she asserted.

"Were you abused in foster care?" he asked.

She looked at him, surprised by his boldness, both wary and thankful for it. "Yes," she said. "I was."

He didn't press for details. "And when you were overseas? Something happened to you?" he asked.

Of her inner circle of friends and family, only Angela knew about this part of her life. Years ago, she'd shared with her a watered down version of events. Sometimes she felt like people only ever knew her in pieces. "Yes," she confirmed. "I was kidnapped and held captive for several days."

Daniel bit his lip. "And you're saying that these events shaped your life as much as your parents leaving you?"

Brennan thought about when her parents left. She thought about foster care and slaps, punches, kicks, and the trunk of car that reeked of her vomit and urine. She could easily visualize being at the mercy of men who wanted her dead and how time passed in ways that didn't make sense at all. Pain stretched time into indeterminable units. Finally, she tilted her head, "I'm saying that my parents leaving is only one defining moment on a list of many," she said.

A customer signaled Daniel. He turned to Brennan, "Stay here, okay?"

She nodded and sipped her wine. She'd gotten used to the stop-start conversations they shared. Sometimes, the breaks in between revelations made the conversation easier. It gave her time to breathe.

In many ways, Daniel reminded her of Booth. They were both good and honorable men. Their build was very similar, although Booth's was more imposing. They shared a fondness for the same brand of scotch. They both disliked white wine. There were differences, too. Daniel had never been to a hockey game. His eyes were green not brown. He had been married, briefly, several years ago.

Upon Daniel's approach, Brennan began apologizing, "I'm sorry if I'm monopolizing too much of your time."

"No," he said. "You're not. You're fine, Brennan."

An awkward moment passed between them. Their conversations had been deeply personal; however, their friendship was new. It was difficult to know how to proceed.

Finally, she broke the silence. "You don't have to say anything," she said. "I don't expect you to have any answers."

He shook his head. "I'm trying to figure out how to say this."

She held the glass of merlot in her hand and made a toasting motion with it. "Just say it," she said.

"You are too influenced by what other people think of you. Someone is telling you that you're not acceptable the way you are," he said. "That's making you feel less than…"

"Less than what?" she asked, holding his gaze.

"Less than everyone else," he said, maintaining eye contact. "You look at the people around you and think they've got it figured out. But, Brennan, they are probably more fucked up than you are."

"You don't know that. You don't know them," she retorted defensively.

Daniel sighed. "I'm glad you're here, Brennan. I care about you. But there is a reason you're here and not at home."

Brennan rose from her barstool. "You're right. I should go home," she said.

"That's not what I meant," Daniel argued.

Brennan retrieved some cash from her wallet, more than enough to cover her tab, and laid it on the bar. "I know," she said. "I should go, though."

He called after her but she kept walking. She didn't turn around. The night air was cool and it burned her lungs as she took deep breaths and walked to her car.

On the drive home, Brennan distanced herself from her conversation with Daniel by focusing on Jack Johnson. It had been three weeks since they'd found his remains, and the case was stalled. All they knew was that he'd gotten on the bus and had arrived at school, but he had not ridden the bus home. During school hours, he'd simply disappeared.

Booth had been unable to locate Jack's biological mother.

It was as she was pulling into the driveway of the home she shared with Booth and Christine that she felt an inexplicable sense of guilt. Booth had always been her confidante and now Daniel knew things about her that Booth had never uncovered in nearly a decade of undercover assignments, lunches at the diner, and conversations shared in a bed that had revealed other, tender secrets.

Turning off the ignition, she longed for those nights when she was pregnant with Christine and they were working so hard to get it right. So much was at stake and her swollen belly was a constant reminder of everything they had to lose. He had been so eager to understand the silence that interrupted their many late night conversations. Two years ago, he'd encouraged her to tell him anything, everything, and he waited patiently until she found her words.

Talking to him made her feel like the skeletons she so often examined in the bone room. She felt exposed and stripped in a way that made her know she couldn't hide from him. He had a way of making her give up her secrets to him.

The house was dark as she made her way inside.

Perhaps it was the wine or the long day, but she was exhausted. Quietly, she entered their bedroom and found Booth asleep and facing away from her. She slipped off her shoes, stripped down to her underwear, and climbed in bed beside him. She longed for him to turn over and ask her where she'd been or what was wrong or why she missed dinner.

She didn't know when or why he'd stopped trying to understand her silence.

For all the years they'd been together and despite all the things they'd shared, she didn't know how to break the monotony of their morning routine, put her hand over his, and tell him that she needed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: Sorry it's been a while. Life has been crazy (good crazy!). I'm back, and I hope to finish this fic in the next few weeks. I have plans for a finale fic, too, because there is no way that ending will do for five months. **

Booth was awakened by the sound of vomiting.

Blindly, he reached for Brennan only to find that she was not in bed with him. The light sneaked a trail across the bedroom floor from under the door in their bathroom. Rubbing his eyes, he threw back the covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He stood and stretched and made his way to the bathroom. For a moment, he stood outside the door listening, waiting for her sickness to take its course because he knew she would be embarrassed to be caught in a moment of weakness.

When there was only silence, he entered the bathroom. "Bones?" he asked, seeing her draped over the toilet. "Are you all right?"

In response, she laughed humorlessly but didn't otherwise answer.

"Hangover?" he questioned, genuinely perplexed.

Again, she laughed. "You know me better than that."

It was true. In all their time together, he'd never seen her drink to the point that she was sick. She could definitely handle her liquor. His sleepy brain whirred to life and with sudden clarity he remembered the only other time he'd known her to vomit. He crossed the bathroom and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Bones, are you pregnant?"

She was quiet for a beat too long, and his heart beat hard in his chest.

"No," she answered finally.

"What is it?" he asked.

She sighed. "Probably a stomach virus," she lied. "Go back to bed."

Her body shook as if she was trying to hold back what they both knew was inevitable. He trailed a hand over the top of her head and left her alone. As soon as he exited the bathroom, he heard her vomit again. He closed the door softly and crawled back in bed.

xXx

Brennan skipped breakfast and swallowed convulsively when Booth offered her some coffee.

She insisted on going to work, so he insisted on driving her. On a normal day, he'd drop her off at the lab and continue on to the FBI; however, it was not a normal day.

She wasn't feeling well, and he was concerned, so he parked and carried Christine in to the Jeffersonian. Angela descended from the platform and greeted them with a tight smile.

"You've got a visitor. In your office," Angela said cryptically and with just enough nervousness to make Booth suspicious.

"Okay," Brennan said, too tired and sick to catch Angela's somewhat warning tone. Brennan adjusted the shoulder strap of her messenger bag and made her way to her office with Booth following closely behind.

As soon as Brennan entered her office, she realized that Angela was trying to help her avoid a scene.

"Daniel?" she questioned.

He was standing in front of a row of shelves and admiring artifacts she'd brought back from her work around the world.

"Your friend, Angela, said I could wait here. I hope you don't mind –" he spoke as he turned and stopped when he saw Booth and Christine.

Booth, sensing the tension, looked from Brennan to Daniel and back again.

"Daniel," Brennan said, "this is Booth."

Booth waited for Brennan to clarify – he was her partner, mate, father of her child – but Daniel seemed to know who he was. Booth felt at a disadvantage.

The other man crossed the room and held out his hand. Booth straightened his spine and gave the man a firm handshake.

For a moment, the three of them stood in Brennan's office consumed by tension and awkwardness. "How do you two know each other?" Booth said, gesturing between Brennan and Daniel. Christine rested her head on Booth's shoulder.

Daniel glanced at Brennan and then at Booth, "I'm a –"

"Daniel is a friend," Brennan interrupted.

Christine squirmed, and Booth glanced at his watch and realized he was already late for work. He turned to Brennan, "If you need to leave early, give me a call. I'll give you a ride home." He pressed a kiss against her temple and left to take Christine to daycare.

As soon as he was gone, Brennan turned to Daniel. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

Daniel nodded to the couch in her office. Her coat was draped over the back. "You left that at the Founding Fathers last night," he explained. "And I wanted to apologize."

"Apologize?" she asked.

"You've been through a lot, Brennan. I assumed a lot. I'm sorry," he said.

Brennan brought a shaky hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. "It's all right," she said.

Taking a step closer, Daniel took her by the arm and guided her to the couch, "Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm not feeling well," she confessed.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you in pain?"

It happened quickly and fluidly – she was so tired, her entire body ached, and she simply could not keep her head raised. Daniel was there, and he put an arm around her drawing her closer, and for just a moment she wanted to rest. She didn't want to think about Booth or the distance between them or how a bartender at the Founding Fathers knew more about her current emotional state than the man she loved and lived with. For just a moment, she allowed herself to be comforted and she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder.

He didn't feel or smell like Booth but that didn't bother her enough to sit up and tell him to leave.

Angela entered and stated loudly, "I should come back later."

Brennan raised her head from Daniel's shoulder, and he scooted away from her, which made the scene seem more than it was.

"No, it's fine," Brennan said. "What do you need, Angela?"

She shifted on her feet and stared disapprovingly at Brennan.

Daniel leaned close to Brennan and asked if she would be all right. She nodded weakly, and he stood up. "I'll see you later," he said, and then to Angela, "It was nice to meet you."

Her years with Booth, Angela, and the rest of her friends had taught her to anticipate friendly confrontation; however, she wasn't feeling well, so she closed her eyes and leaned back against the couch.

"Sweetie? What the hell is going on? Who is that? You…and the guy…what is going on?"

Brennan didn't open her eyes. "He's a friend."

"If Booth had walked in and seen you and your mystery friend wrapped up that way, he would have hit the roof!" Angela proclaimed.

Brennan opened her eyes. "Why? You kissed Booth, and I didn't say a word. Booth has comforted witnesses, and I have been nothing but supportive. We share a life together that doesn't exclude interaction with the opposite sex," she explained rationally. If she didn't think too deeply about her connection with Daniel, she could justify it, and it didn't seem wrong or abnormal or threatening.

"You just keep telling yourself that, sweetie," Angela said, rolling her eyes.

Brennan smiled tightly. "Thank you, I will."

Angela turned on her heel and left, mumbling something about how it had taken years for them to get here, and she didn't want to see it ruined.

Brennan was not often at a loss, but she was at a loss to explain the pain she felt every day, and she was at a loss about how to bridge the distance between her and Booth. She wanted to confide in him, but everything felt so perfunctory.

Instead of thinking about it, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes against the ensuing pain. She stood up, walked to her desk, and sat down in front of her computer to begin her day.


End file.
